


lingering, longing

by Zoadgo



Series: Kinktober 2018 [23]
Category: The 100 (TV)
Genre: F/M, Fluff, Fluffy Smut, Scars
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-10-24
Updated: 2018-10-24
Packaged: 2019-08-07 04:03:18
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,188
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16400948
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Zoadgo/pseuds/Zoadgo
Summary: “Hey Roan, can I see the scars on your back?”It had seemed a simple enough question when Clarke had asked, exhausted as she is, but now, standing behind him with Roan undressed from the waist up, nothing seems so simple. His muscles flex as he drops his shirt to the ground, shifting the intricate designs atop them. It’s such a private moment, the silence a definite presence in the room around them.Clarke can’t help but reach out and touch his back. It feels right, somehow, to place her hands on him. She needs to know what his scars feel like under her fingers, what more information she might gather by tracing their lines. So she does so, a slow study of his most intimate history. With her thumb, she brushes a raised whorl; she runs her fingers along the sides of a gentle curve. Roan shivers, and Clarke feels a pang of guilt over making him stand with his shirt off before she realizes she’s never seen him react to the cold before, and the room is not cold at all.





	lingering, longing

**Author's Note:**

  * Inspired by [Hypothermia](https://archiveofourown.org/works/6401065) by [Zoadgo](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Zoadgo/pseuds/Zoadgo). 



> day 23 upload, one day late, for the prompt **scars**. and yes, this is _totally_ an alternate scene from [chapter seven](https://archiveofourown.org/works/6401065/chapters/31578627) of _Hypothermia_. I guess i'm writing fic of my own fics now lol.
> 
> thanks to [Etra](http://coldsaturn.tumblr.com) for being the best beta a girl could ask for <3

“Hey Roan, can I see the scars on your back?”

It had seemed a simple enough question when Clarke had asked, exhausted as she is, but now, standing behind him with Roan undressed from the waist up, nothing seems so simple. His muscles flex as he drops his shirt to the ground, shifting the intricate designs atop them. It’s such a private moment, the silence a definite presence in the room around them.

Clarke can’t help but reach out and touch his back. It feels right, somehow, to place her hands on him. She needs to know what his scars feel like under her fingers, what more information she might gather by tracing their lines. So she does so, a slow study of his most intimate history. With her thumb, she brushes a raised whorl; she runs her fingers along the sides of a gentle curve. Roan shivers, and Clarke feels a pang of guilt over making him stand with his shirt off before she realizes she’s never seen him react to the cold before, and the room is not cold at all.

“I’m sorry.” Clarke snatches her hand away, chiding herself for crossing that line without even asking, “I shouldn’t have-”

“No, it’s okay,” Roan responds, hunching over with his hands on the edge of the desk, voice huskier than normal. “I just wasn’t expecting that.”

Clarke knows she should back down, return to her work and leave Roan to his, but he didn’t tell her to stop, and she doesn’t want to. The scars call to her, making her fingers ich with the need to touch him once more. It calls up some kind of a memory of the past; not something definite, but an echo of an emotion. Something she’s been ignoring, hiding from. If she doesn’t turn away from him now, she’ll have to face it, and all the consequences it may bring.

Clarke places her hand firmly, but lightly on his back once more. She can’t spend her whole life running, and this is something she doesn’t want to flee from, anyway. Roan’s muscles under her hand belay a slight twitch when she touches him, which she smoothes out with gentle sweeps of her hand. The topography of his back tickles the palm of her hand, harsh lines soft under her touch.

Without thinking, Clarke leans in and presses her lips to the top of the scar on his right shoulder. She sighs against his skin, and knows there’s no coming back. It doesn’t scare her as it might have, or maybe should. She yearns for this, to know more about him; to know everything.

“Clarke-” Roan chokes on her name, clearly startled. Clarke simply makes shushing noises, tracing her hand over his back with her mouth hovering centimeters away from his skin. If he tells her to stop, she will, in a heartbeat. If not-

Clarke presses another kiss to his back, more firmly. She drags her lips over the uneven surface of the scar as she pulls away, and it sends a strange sensation to her gut. She likes it, she decides. With her hands rubbing soothing patterns on his ribs, Clarke maps the old wounds with her mouth, thrills running through her as Roan’s grip on the table goes white and he shudders again.

“What are you-” Roan begins to ask, a little breathless, and Clarke nuzzles into his back. She can barely feel the texture of his scar on her cheek, but still, it is another way for her to know it.

“It’s beautiful,” Clarke answers his unfinished question, pausing around one more word. She weighs it, feels the implication of it in her core, and decides to put it into the world. “You’re beautiful.”

“You don’t know what you’re talking about,” Roan says, his tone belaying an underlying desperation.

“I thought I was one of your most trusted advisors,” Clarke challenges, never stopping in her ministrations, and never begin stopped. Roan’s grasp remains white knuckled on the desk.

“You are.” Roan puts so much emotion into those two words that it threatens to overwhelm Clarke, and she thinks she might understand a bit of it. That Roan cares for her, and he doesn’t want things to change, perhaps. 

Clarke sighs a breath over his ribs and watches the small muscles there twitch in response. Change isn’t necessarily bad, from where she’s standing.

“Then you should trust me to know what I’m doing, right?” Clarke asks, and Roan hangs his head heavily as she runs her thumbs along either side of his spine.

“It’s not that simple,” Roan protests.

Clarke presses another kiss to the back of his shoulder, not on a scar this time, simply marking his skin with her lips. “It could be.”

“No, it can’t.” Roan shakes his head, muscles tensing. “I care about you, Clarke, and there’s nothing simple about that, so-”

“I know,” Clarke cuts him off, running her left hand down his arm to cover the back of his hand. 

She lays herself against him in the process, cheek resting on the side of his shoulder and chest pressed firmly against the heat radiating off of him. It’s hard to say how long she’s known for, but this gentle intimacy reminds her of their nights with the wolves, and of so many other soft moments. It’s really not a surprise to hear the words from his lips, and it’s even less surprising that she finds the truth of them echoing within her own heart.

Roan turns his head for the first time since she’d started touching him, candlelight catching on the scars at his temples. They’re striking in a different way than the tapestry of his back, and she inches to the side in order to reach up and trace her fingers over them. Roan looks almost wounded as she strokes the deadened skin there, vulnerable in a way she’s never seen him before.

“It’s okay, Roan,” Clarke says, trying to convey her sincerity in the words. She knows what she’s doing, knows what it might mean, and she’s okay with all of that. She can’t imagine stopping, not now that she’s laid her hands on him.

He searches her gaze, intense and solemn for a long moment. Clarke stills her hands as he does so, but she doesn’t let him go. If he asked- yes, of course she would. But failing that, she delights in the simple feeling of his skin beneath hers.

Roan either finds what he’s looking for, or he simply gives in. Either way, he turns his head into her touch, exhaling a long breath and noticeably relaxing. Clarke takes this as a cue and moves her thumb over the silvery soft skin of his facial scar once more. It’s astonishing, the contrast of it to the hardened skin around it. She drags her fingertips over the seam between live and dead flesh, where she knows from her own experience the nerves act strange.

Roan’s eyes close, strain easing from the lines around his eyes as Clarke continues her gentle exploration. She wasn’t lying, earlier; he is beautiful. It’s a shame, she thinks with a soft pang in her chest, that she should be the only one who gets to see this side of him. The soft, tender side, where he doesn’t have to disguise his emotions and reactions. A part of her delights in being the only one who knows what he looks like relaxed, but it is a sad cruelty that he must be tense and composed at all other times, than in the dead of night with Clarke.

Clarke lifts his hand, tugging gently to turn him away from the desk towards her. It allows her to see both sides of his face, the perfect symmetry of his markings. She holds his face between her hands, fingers mirroring touches on either temple, entranced by the very thought of the scars. The pain they must have caused, how awful the healing must have been. All to leave him with something so dramatic, scar tissue soft and unblemished as the first snow of winter.

Clarke leans up on her tiptoes and drags Roan down to her, pressing her lips first to his left temple, then to his right. She hears his breath catch in his throat, and a glance down shows his hands balled into fists at his side, but he makes no move to touch her. He restrains himself, simply yielding to her ministrations. It’s sweet, but the feel of his skin and muscles and the very sight of him in front of her has started a slow, sleepy heat unfurling in her abdomen, and Clarke finds herself wishing he weren’t so restrained.

“It’s okay,” Clarke repeats again, catching Roan’s eye for a moment. He simply looks at her, a storm of some sort brewing behind his eyes, and Clarke decides to add fuel to that flame.

With the same lack of hesitation she had displayed with reaching out in the first place, Clarke presses her lips to Roan’s. He takes only a moment to respond to the kiss, and when he does so it sends flutters through Clarke. It’s a soft, tender thing; his lips chapped and rough against hers, but moving with a slow and almost cautious purpose. Clarke sighs into it, wrapping her arms around his neck, and only then do Roan’s hands leave his sides.

He places one upon her hip, gently holding her, and the other smoothes across her lower back. Clarke arches against him, stealing a taste of his lower lip and shivering when his thumb skates across a sliver of bared skin. Never has she been more glad of the privacy afforded to the King; an interruption now would be the death of her, she’s sure.

Roan breaks from the kiss with a low groan that resounds through Clarke, inspiring wetness between her thighs. He crushes her to his chest with his embrace, resting his lips against the hair above her ear. With anyone else, it might be overwhelming; with Roan, Clarke feels wrapped in the warmest blanket, the safest harbour from any storm. Clarke relaxes into it, resting her head on his shoulder with her heart pounding strong and fast against her ribs.

“I’ve been wanting to do that for so long,” Roan admits, his voice a deep rumble Clarke can feel more than hear.

“You don’t have to stop there,” Clarke mutters into his neck. She punctuates her words with a kiss to his pulse point that draws another one of those impossible moans from him.

“Clarke, we can’t,” Roan protests in a tone full of regret.

“Why not?”

Clarke leans back as much as she can to look at him, and Roan relaxes his grip slightly. She knows how she must look, lips pink from kissing, hair slightly mussed, desire in her eyes. If she thought there were any genuine reason for them to stop, she wouldn’t tempt him so. As is, she gives him only a moment of silent thought before leaning up, pulling him down to bring his scars to her level once more. Except this time she doesn’t stop at a chaste kiss; Clarke drags her tongue up the inner curve of his scar, tasting the sweat on his skin. Roan shudders, mumbling an Azgedasleng curse, and Clarke knows she's won.

“Well?” Clarke asks, when Roan fails to answer her. She smiles, falling back to her heels to gaze upon Roan’s utterly awestruck expression.

“What was the question?” Roan jokes with a small smirk of his own.

Clarke responds by kissing the grin from his lips, turning them around and inching them backwards towards the bed. She scrambles backwards onto it when they reach it, and is rewarded with being able to lean back on the pillows and watch Roan crawl towards her. He’s a warrior, every inch the prime example of the word, and it’s evident in the way he eyes her as a wildcat does its prey. There’s that primal urge which Clarke herself has entertained on more than one occasion.

He kneels in front of Clarke’s reclining position when he reaches her, and she takes advantage of his stillness. She leans forward, reaching out to trace her hands over his chest. The scars there are different from the ones that started this all; wild, unintended, the results of living a life like they do. A life of war, and surviving, and being stabbed. Her fingers ghost over her own stab wound on him, and she feels an odd sense of ownership. Like this is her mark upon him, something binding them, regardless of the context in which it was bestowed.

Below that scar, she can see the vague shape of him through his trousers, and her own arousal quickens in response to it. She moves her touch down, palming him through the fabric. Roan makes an almost moan at that, and Clarke can’t help but touch him more firmly, a small taste of what’s to come. Much as a part of her would be delighted to tease him all night and see exactly where the limits of his restraint lay, a growing ache deep inside of Clarke begs for her attention.

Leaving Roan bereft of her touch, Clarke hurries to shed her shirt, Roan assisting her eagerly with the bindings underneath. His calloused hands are perfectly rough against her skin, thumbs tracing over her collarbones as he looks at her like she’s some sort of a treasure. Clarke shivers delightfully, pressing into his touch and inviting more with the subtle curve of her spine.

Roan descends upon her, his lips meeting her for a moment before tracing down her neck. Further down, Clarke loses herself in the touch of his mouth on her needy flesh. His hot breath ghosts across her nipples as he presses open mouthed kisses to the sides of her breasts, cupping the flesh there with his warrior’s grip. Her nipples harden under the attention, and Roan takes that as invitation to lave his tongue over them. Pleasure pools within her, and the dampness and ache in her underwear grows more insistent.

As Roan lavishes himself upon her breasts, Clarke slides her hands down his back, retracing the scars by recent memory. Roan groans at her deft touch, dragging his teeth over the tip of one nipple, drawing a breathy moan from Clarke. He kisses the nub, and Clarke pulls him back up to face level, her desire nearly overwhelming.

“Please, Roan,” Clarke practically whimpers the words.

Roan reads the intent in them, clear as it is. He sets his hands to work at her waist, undoing fastenings with haste. He seems to have some preternatural skill for it, as the complex trappings of Azgeda court clothes melt away beneath his touch. Clarke arches as he hooks his fingers into the waistband, pulling down pants and underwear in one smooth motion.

His own remaining clothes follow quickly, leaving them both naked and Clarke staring brazenly at his erection. She had guessed he was large, when she touched him earlier, and he does not disappoint in the flesh. The ache within her pulses, desperate, and Clarke pulls him to her, laying back on the pillows. Roan holds himself carefully on one forearm, his other hand going to grab one of Clarke’s legs. He spreads her open for him, slotting himself in where she so desperately wants him. She can feel the heat of him at her entrance, and she bites her lips in anticipation.

“You’re sure?” Roan rumbles, gaze dark with lust, yet still taking the time to be oh so considerate of her. How exactly had it taken Clarke this long to realise the depth of his emotions for her?

Clarke responds by reaching down and wrapping her hand around his shaft, guiding him into her. Roan doesn’t need any more than the slight invitation, easing himself into her without any more questions. Clarke finds herself gasping slightly, aching at the stretch of him. She hitches her ankle over his hip, spreading herself more, and lets out a throaty moan as the first burn of penetration fades into the pleasure of being filled.

Roan takes his time, allowing Clarke to adjust to the size of him slowly. He bottoms out against her with a shaky breath that Clarke can’t help but echo, her hands reaching up to play along his back once more. It’s impossibly intimate, Roan’s ridged skin revealing its secrets beneath her fingers as he fills her to a near ridiculous extent. Warmth floods through Clarke, her heart flipping in her chest.

After a few breaths, Roan begins to move again, pumping his hips in an almost leisurely manner. The mere friction of his movements is enough to inspire more pleasure in Clarke’s core, wetness easing his path and allowing him to pick up the pace. Clarke loses herself in the feeling of it, the slick drag of flesh, the sounds of sex filling the room.

Clarke moans as tension coils within her, digging her nails into Roan’s back slightly. It keeps her grounded, the feel of his scars catching under her touch, keeps her from having all rational thought driven from her mind by the steady pounding of his hips. It’s a near thing, anyway, and Clarke finds herself rocking her hips against him, desperately seeking more. 

Roan’s thrusts satisfy the ache in her, but Clarke’s orgasm remains just out reach, pleasure building upon pleasure to a nearly unbearable extent. Clarke whimpers, clenching her muscles around him, and Roan drops his head to her shoulder, his pace stumbling for a moment. Clarke twists her neck in order to press her lips to the scar on his temple, panting against his cheek as he regains his cadence.

Needy, Clarke drops one of her hands from his back an sneaks it between them. Her fingers find her clit, and it only takes a few firm strokes of the sensitive bundle of nerves before she climaxes, bearing down on Roan hard and gasping a silent moan against his temple. He pushes her through the waves of pleasure before finding his own release within her, and Clarke has never been more glad for the Ark’s supplied birth control. She holds him to her, heel behind him pulling their hips flush. 

After a time, as they catch their breath and the sweat on Clarke’s skin cools unpleasantly, she releases her leg, and Roan pulls out of her with a regretful groan. It’s a somewhat gross feeling, Clarke wrinkles her nose at it as Roan lays on the bed next to her. All discomfort is flushed from her mind, however, as he pulls her to his chest. Clarke melts into the warmth of him, her earlier exhaustion coming back with a vengeance.

“We still have to finish our work,” Roan points out, entirely correctly and incredibly rudely.

“Shhh.” Clarke ignores his facts, fingers lighting on a scar on his bicep. He chuckles and drops a kiss on the top of her head. 

Tomorrow, she figures. They’ll get to their work tomorrow.


End file.
